


do not stand at my grave and weep ( I am not there, I do not sleep )

by wearealltalesintheend



Series: dying is an art, like everything else ( I do it  exceptionally well ) [2]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Ghost!Connor, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Like so much angst, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, as a ghost of course, future tree bros, hopefully, this is basically requiem if Connor had been there, you have no idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11195115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: "Connor watches as Evan gapes blankly at him, and feels frustration bubbling up in his chest, because why on earth did he think a living, breathing real human being would understand? Why am I telling you this?He is angry and sad and hurt and frustrated, and then he is gone."or, alternatively, Connor finds no one mourns the wicked, the Murphys go through their requiem, and dying isn't any easier.





	do not stand at my grave and weep ( I am not there, I do not sleep )

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so yes, I made this into a series because I have a few deleted scenes that I really wished had made it into the final cut but didnt because there was no reason for Evan to be there and changing points of views would be too messy.
> 
> SO, in celebration of winnig BEST FREAKING MUSICAL at the Tony's, here it is the first bonus! It's placed in _Chapter 4- So long lives this ( and this gives life to thee )_ , directly after Connor leaves Evan in the street.
> 
> It's so angsty, why am I posting it to celebrate anything? Welp, who knows, not me, I never know anything. It's quite refreshing, actually.
> 
> Another thing, yes, that is a Christmas Carol reference. I'm sorry.
> 
> Anyway, on with the story.

Connor watches as Evan gapes blankly at him, and feels frustration bubbling up in his chest, because why on earth did he think a living, breathing _real_ human being would understand? _Why am I telling you this?_  

 

He is angry and sad and hurt and frustrated, and then he is gone.  

 

. 

. 

. 

 

Connor gathers himself again in his living room, and it hits him how everything seems _normal._ Except, that is, for Zoe standing in the middle of the room, glaring at the fake emails as if they could catch on fire by her will alone. 

 

She looks the same, Connor thinks. Not that he would know; on the past years they had drifted so far apart, he couldn't even see her outline on the horizon.  

 

 _(_ _It's one of the many regrets he carries; they all sit on his shoulders and weight him down. Somedays he thinks he is Jacob Marley and these are his chains._  

 

 _And somedays he thinks he might be Atlas, carrying a doomed world._  

 

 _Most of days he thinks it doesn't matter in the end, they might crush him down regardless. )_  

 

 _( somedays, he is nothing at all )_  

 

Now, Zoe looks angry.  

 

Connor wants to reach out and tell her, _it's okay_ and _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_  

 

But when he looks down at his hands, they're almost translucent, and he can see the stained tiles on the floor; and when he tries to step forward, he doesn't crash into the sofa, instead he goes through it as if the furniture is nothing but an illusion. 

 

 _( if no one sees you, are you really there at all? )_  

 

So, Connor wants to cry and kick and throw a fit, but even that is not his anymore. He flexes his fingers, _god_ , does he want a joint now.  

 

And Zoe is talking now, and he almost thinks she is talking to him. It gives him a surge of hope, a mantra of maybe, maybe, _maybe._  

 

She's not, though, and it erases whatever smile had been threatening to spill through, and the crash back to earth breaks his bones. 

 

Anyway, Zoe is talking to him, not _with_ him, but to him. She glares at the letters in the way she used to glare at him when he did something stupid; and she grips the papers with white knuckles in a way that makes him wonder if she ever wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him until he became his old self again. 

 

He is not sure, but he wishes she did. 

 

She is right, though, even if admitting  it kills another part of him all over again; in the last couple years, he had been a complete piece of shit. He had been always so angry and hurt and frustrated and alone and _angry_ , and everyone just kept _poking_ at his wounds and he would lash out against whoever had been near.  

 

 _( didn't they hear? You don't play with a wounded animal. Even if it's half-dead like he had been )_  

 

So yeah, Zoe has the right of not mourning him. There isn't anything to miss.  

 

 _( sunny Sunday late mornings early afternoons, chocolate ice cream and a scoop of strawberry please, picnincs in fields stretching on and on and on and on, sicamores touching the blue sky, looking for four-leaf clovers in the greeniest grass )_  

 

 _( please, remember me like this )_  

 

 _( like me again )_  

 

He wants to say, _it's okay, I understand,_ and _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ and he wants to hug his sister like they used to do when they were kids. 

 

When she speaks, her words taste bitter and sour and acid, and it burns holes through him. He lets them melt his skin and bones, and he picks and pulls at the edges so they don't scrab over.  

 

 _( let it bleed and let it ache, he'll wear the scar tissue on his soul )_  

 

Zoe slams the door to her room, locks it, and Connor doesn't dare go through.  

 

It hurts like blades piercing and slashing his skin, it's familiar, it's okay. 

 

. 

. 

. 

 

He is floating around the house, feeling more like a ghost than ever, when he stops in front of his parents' room. There is a low murmur coming from the door, and his curiosity wins over his fear. 

 

His father is alone in the room, standing near the bed, another of those damned emails clutched on his hands.  

 

There is no sadness in his face, just disappointment and anger, and Connor doesn't know why he expected otherwise. It's the same look his father gave him on the occasions he deigned unavoidable to acknowledge his son.  

 

And Connor hates, _hates_ , that it still stings and hurts; death doesn't mellow anything nor gives out peace.  

 

 _( do you still think I only wanted attention? )_  

 

His father does have a point, though, Connor did throw it all away.  

 

 _( he tries not to think about it too much, the heaviest of his regrets, reeking of hospital and pills, sitting on the dark corners of his soul. It comes out at night, snarling and taunting and mocking )_  

 

 _( he thinks about it a lot )_  

 

 _( it used to whisper sweet nothings in his ear when he was alive. It followed the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his breath, it lied and caught him in its web )_  

 

 _( it used to feel like relief )_  

 

 _( what changed? )_  

 

Connor doesn't stay long, he doesn't need to listen to the same thing over and over. This is what he had been running from, he can run a little longer. 

 

. 

. 

. 

 

 _( He steers clear of the bathroom._  

 

 _It stands omnimous at the end of the hall, dark and empty._  

 

 _It feels colder._  

 

 _He steers clear of the bathroom. )_  

 

. 

. 

. 

 

The ghost wanders in the kitchen. 

 

He should've known better by now.  

 

His mother sits at the table, another of the god _fucking_ damned emails in front of her. How many of those fuckers did Evan print? _Jesus Christ._  

 

There are tear stains on this one, places where the ink blurred and bled through the lines. Cynthia is the only one crying.  

 

His heart breaks a little, because his mother had _tried,_ he recognizes that now. She had been far from perfect but she _tried_. 

 

But there is a watery smile, tentative and relieved and hopeful, breaking through the tear tracks.  

 

It makes him want to _scream_ , because that's not him. The boy in the emails, it's not him, it's someone made of _what ifs_ and _maybes_ and _apologies_.  

 

And it's sad, because she is clinging to a lie, her closure is just a trick of the light, all smoke and mirrors. Connor wishes he could've been better, stayed a little longer.  

 

 _( in death he finds he'd rather be alive. In life he thought he'd rather be dead._  

 

 _It's irony, it's a joke, it's funny in all the wrong ways_ _)_  

 

His mother is drying her eyes, smiling in a sad sort of way, her hands are shaking a little and her nails are bitten to the skin. She drinks her glass of wine, and Connor doesn't want to know how long did the bottle last.  

 

Grief doesn't suit Cynthia Murphy anymore than motherhood did.  

 

 _( there's this lullabye she used to sing to him every night before going to sleep._  

 

 _It was soft and sweet and warm and silly in the way all lullabyes do._  

 

 _He can't remember the lyrics, anything past humming a note or two )_  

 

 _._  

 _._  

 _._  

 

Connor finds his feelings bottling up, building up to an explosion, like they used to do, except there isn't much he can do now.  

 

So he does the only thing he can do, he goes back to Evan, because the path is now familiar, and he knows all the bumps and corners and holes by now.  

 

It's not home, but it's not a stranger's place either. It's somewhere in between, it's whatever they make it to be. 

 

The room is dark and Evan is sleeping, beautiful and calm and young and alive, and Connor can see the rise and fall of his chest, the twitch of a dream trying to bleed into reality. 

 

And suddenly it's all too much, he doesn't need any more reminders of his state, he doesn't need his obituary shoved down his throat. And it's so dark in the room, dark, dark, _dark_ , _like when-_  

 

He's outside now, and the moon is shining through the clouds, casting silvery light all around Connor. It's not any easier to breath.  

 

The wind is blowing softly, carrying yellowed leaves in his wake, and he imagines it must feel cool, dry and gritty, against warm skin, but Connor feels nothing. 

 

A leaf blows through his left foot. 

 

 _( somedays he thinks he is nothing at all )_  

 

It's bottling up again, and when tears roll down his cheek, he is not surprised.  

 

 _( let the world end in water, and not in fire )_  

 

Connor curls up, hugs his knees to his chest.  

 

 _( can I start again? )_  

 

 _( don't we get second chances? )_  

 

 _( please )_  

 

It's night, it's a lonely requiem of one; in the end, he is the only one mourning. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, if y'all liked it and think more bonus features and cut scenes are a good idea, leaving a comment telling me this would be nice, that and what else you want to see here, it's for science, you know?
> 
> You can also reach me at [my tumblr.](wearealltalesintheend.tumblr.com)
> 
> And hey? Thanks.


End file.
